Then the greater miracle happened. From the central machine came another roar but louder, more shattering, and the wall around and underneath it exploded outward. Dots darted through the air, of rock, of metal, of the limbs and bodies of men. As the dust and debris settled one could see that the wall was breached. At that point it was no more than a pile of rubble with a gap of ten feet or more at the top, and undefended.
There was a shout from the men of Winchester and they moved forward faster, running and stumbling upward over the rocky slope. Then they were through the gap and inside the city.
SEVEN
THE HIGH SEERS
THAT YEAR WE HAD STRANGE and distinguished guests at the Autumn Fair: the High Seers came to the city.
They came, three of them, black-cloaked on pure white horses, and the city turned out to greet them at the North Gate. It was not a greeting such as had been given to the army when we returned with the spoils of Petersfield. Then the people had shouted their acclamations for the Prince and his followers, and even I, riding with Burke at the head of the camp followers, had heard my name echo from the city’s walls. The High Seers were received in silence, but a silence that was perhaps more impressive than any noise, having reverence in it.
The crazy Christians on one side, there had been always some who were skeptical concerning the Spirits, and Ezzard’s powers as mediator and interpreter of their will. Many, possibly a majority, contrived to hold belief and disbelief in dubious balance. There was something there, they thought, but they did not quite know what, or what the extent and limitations of its authority might be. I think I was among them. Even though I had been angry with Martin for expressing blasphemy, it had been chiefly through anxiety over men’s response to it, not fear of what the Spirits might do. In part I believed in the Spirits—after all, they had named my father Prince and myself his heir, a Prince to be—in part, I doubted.
But it was hard for any to go on doubting after the fall of Petersfield. My father, calling on the Spirits for aid, had led his men in an attack against walls which, strong in themselves, carried also diabolical machines capable of throwing death from great distances: the camp, on which steel first fell, had been almost half a mile away. If there were no Spirits, or they had no power to help, the project was ridiculous, scarcely sane. But the Spirits had shown their presence and their strength, destroying the machine at the very moment that it belched out death, and by that destruction opening a way for our men to pour through and overcome the shocked and demoralized defenders.
In thankfulness my father had decreed the building of a new Seance Hall, three times the size of the old one. The High Seers were come to consecrate its foundation, and the city greeted them in awe. Each city had its Seer, with his attendant Acolytes, but the High Seers had always stayed in their Sanctuary beyond Salisbury, the holy place. There, it was said, they communicated with the Spirits not just fitfully, for an hour at a time, as Ezzard did, but continuously, even passing through from our substantial world to that strange invisible plane in which the Spirits had their being. It was wonderful that they should have left the Sanctuary and come so far, thirty-five miles at least, to honor us.
That evening the High Seers sat at the long table in the Great Hall, on my father’s right hand. Facing them were other Seers: Ezzard and the Seers of Petersfield and Romsey. It was a great concentration of holiness and the banquet was not, at first at any rate, as banquets usually are, noisy with jests and rowdy laughter. Men ate and drank in a solemn hush; heads turned at the sudden squeaking of a chair, reproving the one who sat there.
The Seers ate and drank sparingly, the High Seers eating least of all. I heard it whispered that the little they took was only for politeness’ sake, that usually they supped on the food of the Spirits that could be neither touched nor seen by ordinary people. Whatever their customary food was, it plainly nourished them; they themselves were solid enough and one at least, sitting between the other two, was big indeed and amply stomached.
They left the table before the sweets were brought and all, my father included, stood in respect as they walked together from the Hall. When they had gone there was a kind of sigh that rippled down the line of guests, followed by noisy chatter that burst out in relief. The clowns came with the sweets, and serving maids filled the pots with the strong dark brew of ale, itself sweet to the tongue, which was drunk after meat. I took some myself but only sipped it. I had seen enough heads fuddled with ale to be careful in drinking. I could never see what pleasure men got from being made silly and stupid by it. To me it was a hateful thing not to have control of one’s mind and body.
My father swallowed down his pot and called for another but he had a good head for liquor: even when drinking heavily he never seemed to me the worse for it. Tonight, after his second pot, he rose. The guests that remained rose also but he bade them sit down and continue with their feast; he was excusing himself because he had things to attend to. He left, as they toasted him yet again: Prince of Winchester, conqueror of Petersfield! Not long after a servant came to me quietly. My father wanted to see me in his private room.
I found him sitting in the old wooden armchair. His boots were off and he was toasting his feet at the fire. He nodded as I came in and bobbed my head to him.
“Sit down, Luke. I hope you don’t mind that I took you from the feast.”
I said: “No, sir.”
“You are young still but there are things about which I would like to talk with you. Partly because they are your concern as well as mine.” He shrugged. “And partly, I suppose, because there is no one else to say them to.”
In the past there had been my mother, who would smile, half listening, and tell him she was sure that everything he did was right, and would succeed because he did it. And my aunt, who would comment more shrewdly. And Peter. Peter had spoken up for him before the walls of Winchester and gained great glory in the battle that followed, fighting with a reckless courage that everyone praised. But I knew he could not talk to Peter any more than I could—could not look at him without remembering that which he wished with all his heart to forget. There was Wilson, but old and trusted colleague as he was, some things could not be said to him.
I waited. He said:
“I saw your face when I spoke to the Captains before the attack on the walls. Did you think me mad, son?”
“Why, no, sir . . .”
He shook his head impatiently. “Or reckless, or what you will. At any rate, you thought we could not succeed. As the others did. They came with me because I shamed them into doing so. None of you had faith in the Spirits.”
I began to speak again and again he bore me down.
“Let us talk about faith,” he said. “It is a strange thing. Before you have faith you must believe, and before you believe there must be evidence of some sort to persuade the mind. Faith is remembering that evidence and holding to it against all that seems to challenge or contradict it. And some evidences are stronger than others, and more important. I have faith that my dinner will be brought to me tomorrow, but not such faith that I would sit long at an empty table.”
He paused. I was not sure if he wanted me to say something and anyway had nothing to say. He went on slowly: